


Dark Soul

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Miriam Setrakian (Sacher), Based on S01E12, Bittersweet, Growing Old, M/M, One Shot, Reminiscing, Sad Ending, Setrakian is giving up the good fight, Suicide, Will play on your heartstrings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abraham Setrakian knew better. He knew that to kill a Strigoi he had to sever its head from its body. But he was so caught up in his inner torment that it slipped his mind that night - the night he found Thomas Eichhorst waiting for him in his home, which left him with only enough strength to incapacitate the German and cut out his heart. And now, decades later, Setrakian's mistake comes back to haunt him...</p><p>More specifically, his pawnshop gets raided by a very brown-nosed Eichhorst who's extremely flattered to find that his heart still beats for the Jew. Even though he can't feel it himself, since it's not in his chest anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So we were thinking, "What if Setrakian threw in the towel instead of fleeing, and it was Eichhort's heart in the jar - not Miriam's?" Now, we haven't read the books/comics, but that's going to change in the next twenty-four hours...
> 
> On a side note: Abraham Setrakian - _married?_ OBJECTION! It’s obvious he was and still is head over heels for Eichhorst. Running off at the break of dawn JUST to go sliding down old wells and squeeze through very dark and narrow spaces, so narrow that he had to crawl on his belly like a snake? Subliminal messaging, much? Yeah, we thought so too.

The basement of Abraham Setrakian’s pawnshop was much colder than usual. It was a dank and lonely cold, not bitter like the winter wind blowing through the avenues of Brooklyn, Manhattan. Nor like the Master’s strain spreading from host to host as the night went on…

 _Went on ahead_ just as Dr. Ephraim Goodweather and the others had done, running off with the Jew’s promise – to be right behind them. But it was a lie. Setrakian never planned on leaving his pawnshop, and the five didn’t even notice he had locked the secret passage through meat locker when they were all out safely, trapping himself inside.

But it was to be expected, his _apology_ just the beginning of his goodbye. But in haste it was overlooked. Just like his presence…

Setrakian’s shuffle was slow, growing slower with each step as he walked himself to the center of his cellar, a place adorned by his life’s work and when he finally stopped, he looked around. But not up. Not when it meant acknowledging the muffled poison Eichhorst was whispering to him from beyond the ceiling above, all words empty and threats slipping alongside his Germanic lisp – just like Setrakian’s medication slipping through his own fingers.

Medication that was once taken to prevent death, but now aiding it. Setrakian fumbled with his prescription bottle, his heart seemingly dropping like someone was pulling it from his body when the lid finally popped off, spilling half of the tablets to the floor in a hollow echo.

But despite Setrakian’s clumsiness, he still managed to cup a few. A few being almost a hand’s worth and he erratically shoved them all into his mouth in an overdose, picking up a stale mug of brandy, which he downed in one gulp. And for a moment, just a moment, he stared at the bottom of his glass like it had a message for him – a warning or perhaps a reminder of what he was doing to himself.

Regardless, Setrakian chose to ignore it, swallowing hard to make sure all the pills slithered down his throat before drooping the cup with a limp wrist. He let the cool glass drop from his finger tips and shatter to the ground without a care, which was against his pawnbroker mentality of maintaining appearances. But since there was no use in keeping the place neat anymore, not when it was going to be overrun soon anyways, Setrakian permitted the mess.

He sidestepped the shards, audibly crunching a couple as he made his way over to the cot beside his wall of books, lowering himself into a sit with his cane and a heavy sigh. Once seated, Setrakian settled into the mattress and removed his hat, placing it to the side with Sardu’s sword as he waited for the drugs to take hold.

Better yet, take away his pain…

The pain of _failure_. Setrakian had failed down in the tunnels. He’d lost his perspective, acted with raging impulses and anger. An ancient anger, a bottled anger that just let loose the first chance he got – which almost cost Ephraim and his team their lives. Lives that weren’t his to sacrifice, Setrakian knew that now. Just like he also knew that there wasn’t going to be _a next time_. Not at his age.

The tunnels were their only chance to catch the Master off guard, to take the monster by surprise. But the team fell short by the skin of their teeth and now it was truly war, a war Setraikan wouldn’t see through ‘til the end. Not naturally, but because he was selfish. With his dues paid and apology accepted – little did anyone know his exit-speech, his resignation – there was nothing left for him, nothing left to fight for…

Setrakian was worn, crushed just like Nora was when she beheaded her own mother. A feeling the Jew was no stranger too, a feeling he’d nurtured for many years prior. Decades even, tallying up all the loss, the anguish… It was eating away at him like acid, consuming him like a sickness – straining through his veins like the infection purging the streets and hiding below the city.

The same went for the ilk trying to break into his cellar.

Setrakian leaned back, slowly letting all his remaining dedication sag into defeat like his head. He couldn’t find the strength to force himself to try again, try harder and swifter than the last. Mostly because he was spellbound by the events that had befallen in the past twenty-four hours – making it seem like he was caught in a lag with all his memories, understanding, and trounce for being unable to protect those he loved.

In the past and now.

It happened right after he watched Nora sever her mother’s head. Because it _had to be done_ , Setrakian kept telling himself. _There was no other choice_ , she had to be released – set free. And it was there he saw a familiar pain and suffering on Nora's face. Her responsibilities reminding him of his. What he had to do… what he _didn’t_ do.

Setrakian eyed the cloth he used to wipe Nora’s blade off with, the one now soaked with blood. _Innocent_ blood, and it reminded the Jew of that night – the one where he found Eichhorst after many winters had passed. A night in Shkodër, Albania where he combined his rage and compassion into a plane between, leading him not to kill the German despite his opportunity.

No, instead Setrakian just debilitated Eichhorst long enough to carve out his blackened heart. The heart now sitting in the jar next to him, which he uncovered in remembrance, just to lay eyes on it one last time – eyes crowned with regret, as well as empathy.

Setrakian glanced down at his hands. Earlier he admitted that he had a dark soul, but what he didn’t embrace was that he had good reason. More like an excuse, which made him feel like he was losing his mind, his sanity – everything he had ever worked towards.

It was all here – inside this room – the things that defined him as a person were all _right_ _here_ and yet…

Setrakian cuddled his bent fingers, which were numb, shaking. They always were – ever since that morning in Poland over six decades ago. The decades that just seemed to slip away like the air in his lungs. Unlike the visitors at his door – the matured Strigoi.

He could still hear them banging, clawing, prying to get in. The ones with Eichhorst – that squalid Nazi bastard who used him to craft the Master’s coffin and then threw him to the ditches after his services were rendered useless.

An act not forgotten, and haunted him into the late nineties.

A more peaceful time, yes. But by then Setrakian was already infatuated with the Master, the Strigoi, vampires – everything, no matter what the name or title. And even though he was freed from the trenches, he was still a slave to ancient books and myths, reading up on anything he could get his hands on, linking strange illnesses and mysterious disappearances, which was how he found Eichhorst again.

More specifically, that’s how Eichhorst found _him_ again… Just like tonight.

The door to the cellar opened, letting loose the German, who was the first down the stairs. His faction hot on his heels as he rushed the steps like he was a boy at an aquarium, only caring about his excitement and not scaring the fish. But the Jew wasn’t scared, even when Eichhorst overstepped him and then sensed him before seeing him.

“Setrakian.” Eichhorst breathed with the elocution of his native tongue, announcing it to the air before locking eyes with a dainty turn of his head. They were way past old and petty labels by this point, after all, and the Jew snorted.

“Eichhorst.” Setrakian returned, not wanting to disturb the imagery of their duel without pistols, just words.

“You are not going to run?” Eichhorst mused aloud, almost sounding disenchanted as he raised his arms, tight with his turn, only twisting at the waist to look at the history around. But when there wasn’t an answer he hummed and tucked his hands behind his back, settling for small talk instead. “You have been busy, I see.”

There was a hint of respect in the German’s tone, especially after he started to pace. First walking over to the table piled with weapons – scanning the ones that Dutch and Fet couldn’t carry when they escaped with the rest – before allowing a boney finger to run over the blades. Uncaringly listening to his skin sizzling against the silver before examining his burnt flesh, looking at it as though it’d been brining for hours.

“Quite the collection you have. Some things look almost as old as you do.” Eichhorst wiped at his pants with an aloof smile as he spun on his heels to skim the room again – this time spinning to face the side table a few feet from the Jew, the one with the uncovered jar, cloth crumpled in front.

Eichhorst stiffened in recognition before finishing his turn, soon taking a cautious step closer, a slow step, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There sat his own heart, a part of him he’d thought to have been destroyed ages ago, and Eichhorst stared wonderingly at it like it was an old friend, someone he hadn’t seen in years.

Though at the same time the German was slightly shocked too, and his face did anything but hide his surprise. Especially when he saw that the strain was still thriving – _living_ off the muscle, squirming in and out of the valves and arteries, making it look as though it was still beating.

“You kept it… All these years.” Eichhorst said, more for his own ears, as he bent at the waist to get a better look at the jarred organ.

It was a marvel, really. The preservation – the _immortality_ – and admiration tuned with the German’s dimple, looking more like a wrinkle when he smiled sentimentally. Up until the moment there was a rattle in his throat, not from his stinger though, but more from humor.

“My, how _pathetic_ it looks.” Eichhorst moved to tilt his head, nothing too telling but for a minute it almost made him look dejected – especially his eyes, which battered slightly. And the longer he stared he could’ve sworn he almost remembered what it felt like to be _human_.

Although that was impossible, since the only thing that made the German _feel_ anything these days was silver and sunlight… Not to mention Setrakian, who always seemed to be a constant thorn in his side. A _harmless_ thorn nonetheless, but one he just couldn’t seem to pull out.

And while Eichhorst was preoccupied with the jar, Setrakian spent his time eyeing Sardu’s sword, until he couldn’t’ resist any longer. In a clumsy grab, the Jew snatched it up – unsheathing the blade with a quivering resound as he let the scabbard clatter to the ground, which had Eichhorst slowly straightening out with a snicker. A snicker that stirred the other vampires around with excited gurgles.

“You already have my heart, Jew.” Eichhorst said boredly, gesturing like he was expecting – more like _challenging_ Setrakian to poke him with his little stick made of silver once again. “This time will you try to take my head?” He motioned next to the Strigoi he’d brought with him, which were twitching and circling like hungry hyenas: untamed and just looking to eat.

Behavior Setrakian was used to and he tracked their movement without turning his head until they were good and lost in his blind spot before lifting the blade at Eichhorst, who took a step back for safekeeping with a cherry smirk. Just the reaction Setrakian expected and he trailed his eyes up the sharp edge, stopping below the V of the German’s lapel. But only for a minute, and soon craned his neck to squint higher, fighting the limitations from where he sat.

Distance being one, and Setrakian tossed Sardu’s sword at Eichhorst’s feet like it was a towel in a fighting ring… or just a bone to a dog. “Here.” He grumbled over the metal clanging angrily against the cement in a totter. “You can have it back. Seeing as I won’t be needing it… any longer.”

Eichhorst watched as the sword settled against the bolster before he let his features still, his stance becoming rigid like his lips as he found the strength to glare at the Jew; his brows pinching, _searching_ for the reason behind the surrender, like it was obscured. Except when Eichhorst couldn’t look past the submission, he sneered – sneered like this admittance of defeat was one he’d been waiting to hear for a very, very long time.

“The Master will be… quite _pleased_.” Eichhorst alleged, being careful not to emphasize his own _displeasure_ as he swished the sword aside with the tip of his shoe, just out of reach in case Setrakian had something up his sleeve, and delicately set his sole back onto the cement. “Though I would have rather taken it from you by force, along with the hand that wielded it. Or perhaps lop off your head like you’ve done to so many Strigoi already.”

“What’s… stopping you?”

Eichhorst didn’t answer, his smile forced and fading like he himself was curious as to why he hadn’t already jumped at the chance, seeing as Setrakian was defenseless. And one vampire seemed to sense the German’s slight hesitation, spontaneously taking the chance as it launched its stinger in an attack.

And even though Setrakian saw it coming he decided to stare death in the face and look evil straight in the mouth. But Eichhorst tsked repeatedly, swiftly stepping between the Jew and the Strigoi as he snatched the tongue with his hand like it was a fly and he was a frog, staring it down meanly… and mentally, causing it to cower like a frightened child.

“You will not touch him. Have I made myself _perfectly_ clear?” Eichhorst’s tone was dark, vigilant with his gaze as he searched for a mutual understanding, for coherence no longer visible to the human eye.

 _Setrakian's_ eyes, which were wilting shut from the drugs he’d swallowed earlier, and the Jew almost wanted to laugh at the absurd thought of Eichhorst _actually_ standing up for him. But started coughing instead, a rattling cough which caught the German’s attention. Especially when the glove Setrakian used to wipe his mouth came back speckled in blood.

“What did you take, hm?” Eichhorst soothed closer, close enough to boldly plant both hands on either side of the Jew’s aged cheekbones in a lift. But just as he hovered, the left tip of his expensive shoe knocked against an empty bottle on the ground, causing it to roll.

Eichhorst glanced to it briefly, sharply nodding with his chin to one of the vampire spawns, which bent down to retrieve it then hand to him, and the German let Setrakian go in order to take the container.

“Oh, Jew…” Eichhorst turned the bottle within his grasp to look at the prescription, shortly noting the glass shattered on the ground and scattered pills. “What have you done?”

“Truly the righteous attain life, but whoever pursues evil finds death…” Setrakian began in a muffle. “I have done nothing but pursue you and your kind most of my life. I was so… _obsessed_ that I have lost out on starting my own.” His words were careful, sounding more like justification than a direct answer, and it was the German's turn to almost want to laugh.

“That was your own stupidity, A230385.” Eichhorst pitched loosely as he tossed the container. “You should have turned a blind eye when you still had the chance…”

 _Ja_ , the German thought, it was Setrakian’s fault they were incompatible. If only he had not tried to stop the Master back at the Concentration Camp – tried to stop such a monster with such a small blade – then he wouldn’t have had his fingers crushed into a liability more than reliability, leading him to be discarded like a broken toy…

But at the time, the Jew didn’t see his perseverance as foolishness.

“Not when I thought… I could change the one person that I…” Setrakian stopped himself, catching Eichhorst off-guard, who looked like he wanted to hear the rest of the sentence – not have it left hanging in the air. But Setrakian had already said too much, and tried to mask his slip with a grunt. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

The tone he used was distant, prickling, about as prickling as the numbness crawling over the tops of his feet and up the backs of his legs, and Setrakian grunted again. He collected his hat and leaned back stiffly, kicking up his heels to lie down fully on the cot, like he had nothing left to lose, letting Eichhorst ogle him all the way.

“Will you… stay?” Setrakian asked after a few adjustments of getting comfortable before placing his fedora over his face in a sort of shield, making him unreadable. But even so, there was still enough tinge in his manner to let the German know it was the closest he was going to hint towards a love confession and Eichhorst hummed.

Though it was more like rebuffing a snort as he drew closer to the docile Jew. “I suppose I could.” Eichhorst forced himself to sigh, like it was a burden before he unfastened the top button of his lapel so that he could sit on the cot’s edge easier, less tight. “Only for a while, though.” He moved his fingers like he was sprinkling fairy dust over the makeshift bed slowly, tracing Setrakian’s body not just with his hand, but his eyes too. “I still have to eliminate your _recruits_ , after all.”

“The others…” Setrakian stifled through another sodden cough. A cough that racked his frame with each choke, upsetting the hat covering his lips, and for a second Eichhorst looked like he thought the Jew was going to die right there on the spot – though it’s not like Setrakian was entirely there to spot it. “Just let them go. This is not their war.”

It was the least he could say on their behalf, he figured. After all, no one would condole him when he was gone. But the rest… they had family, loved ones to hold onto – to _live_ for, if not in tribute of those who had died along the way, then for themselves and the fleeting hope of making the world a better place.

A quest originally left in Setrakian’s hands – to destroy the Master and his spawn – but he was passing it on. Just as the German was passing on his plea.

“I am afraid I cannot honor that request.” Eichhorst said, fairly. “You made it their war when you introduced them to your world.”

There was a pause, a silence thereafter that touched Eichhorst the same way words would have. It told him that he had a point, _that he was right_ , and he left it at that as he glanced briefly at the Jew stretched behind him then to the books towering the both of them. All filled with wondrous tales of survival, no doubt, and Eichhorst couldn’t help but feel a pinch sorry for Setrakian.

“You have built up so much here…” Eichhorst started, almost alluding admiration. But coming from a reformed Nazi it could’ve been equally taken as travesty as well. “It shames me to see you throw it all away… Such _talent_.”

“Spare me your mockery, Eichhorst.” Setrakian knew better than to accept the German’s words as cordial. Especially when he was referencing their time together, meetings filed with mysterious themes, which like then were full of empty praise – only attempts to get under his skin.

Which he already had…

“You must admit it, Jew.” Eichhorst paused for a minute, like he was letting Setrakian ponder his mistakes. “It _was_ pleasurable chasing after me all these years. It gave you a _purpose_ , did it not?”

Setrakian huffed weakly. “I suppose it did…” He accepted through a cringe as another series of chokes festered, making his throat and chest feel as though they were burning – a fiery sensation from the internal bleeding he undoubtedly had.

“Any final words?” Eichhorst murmured, his tone thinning like the room as he watched the matured Strigoi he’d brought with him furrow out from whence they came, parting up the stairs and, from there, into the night like bats to hunt those hunting the Master.

A number once six, but soon to be five.

“’Til we… meet again.” Setrakian groused, barely above whisper and the German couldn’t bring himself to look back over his shoulder. Not when it meant looking at weakness… humanity.

But most of all, a _memento_.

Eichhorst let himself smile. “How cliché.” He reflected, remembering those as the same words he’d been told when he had his heart cut from his chest. A farewell, of sorts, which was why his words weren’t bitter.

They were charmed as Setrakian heard, who consented with an exhale. A slow exhale and the German did the same. Except when he took in a breath a few seconds later, listening to the Jew take an even shallower one, he knew the old man was slipping away.

Eichhorst closed his eyes, but even with them closed he still saw Setrakian. He still saw the young and frightened version of the man he’d met back at the Concentration Camp in Treblinka, Poland all those decades ago. The coyness, the calluses of his hands. Hands that had created such beauty, such magnificence, and yet were now stained by the blood of his brethren and violence.

A violence dying with each peaceful rise and fall of Setrakian’s chest, and Eichhorst kept his lids locked up until the moment he sensed the Jew's heart stop – until he heard the pumping of vitality cease in his ears. And it was only then that he opened them again. Bit by bit, setting his sights on his bottled organ first – bottled like his emotions, making him realize just how heartless he really was.

Heartless and now alone.

“Gute nacht, Setrakian.” Eichhorst said carefully, natively, in the language the Jew had learned to hate so much. But he wasn’t using it in a spiteful sense. It was more like appropriate, he thought, and tried to work his tongue around something else. Something lighter, perhaps, for commemoration’s sake.

Except when no words came, Eichhorst just settled for a snort through his nose, patting the Jew’s chest once and keeping his hand there for a counted _drei_ seconds before he finally let go in a rise.

“Gute nacht.”

**Author's Note:**

> Goodnight, Setrakian. #boxoftissues


End file.
